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Voyager: A Novel (Outlander) ペーパーバック – 2001/8/7
英語版
Diana Gabaldon
(著)
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NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The third book in Diana Gabaldon’s acclaimed Outlander saga, the basis for the Starz original series.
“Triumphant . . . Her use of historical detail and a truly adult love story confirm Gabaldon as a superior writer.”—Publishers Weekly
In this rich, vibrant tale, Diana Gabaldon continues the story of Claire Randall and Jamie Fraser that began with the now-classic novel Outlander and continued in Dragonfly in Amber. Sweeping us from the battlefields of eighteenth-century Scotland to the West Indies, Diana Gabaldon weaves magic once again in an exhilarating and utterly unforgettable novel.
He was dead. However, his nose throbbed painfully, which he thought odd in the circumstances.
Jamie Fraser is, alas, not dead—but he is in hell. Waking among the fallen on Culloden Field, he is concerned neither for his men nor his wounds but for his wife and their unborn child. Lord, he prayed passionately, that she may be safe. She and the child. It’s a prayer he’ll utter many times over the next twenty years, never knowing but always hoping that Claire made it through the standing stones, back to the safety of her own time.
Safe she is, but believing Jamie gone forever, she’s obliged to live without a heart, her only comfort their daughter, Brianna. But now, their daughter grown, she discovers that Jamie survived, and a fateful decision lies before her: Stay with her beloved daughter, or go back to search Scotland’s dangerous past for the man who was her heart and soul, sustained only by the hope that they will still know each other if she finds him.
“Triumphant . . . Her use of historical detail and a truly adult love story confirm Gabaldon as a superior writer.”—Publishers Weekly
In this rich, vibrant tale, Diana Gabaldon continues the story of Claire Randall and Jamie Fraser that began with the now-classic novel Outlander and continued in Dragonfly in Amber. Sweeping us from the battlefields of eighteenth-century Scotland to the West Indies, Diana Gabaldon weaves magic once again in an exhilarating and utterly unforgettable novel.
He was dead. However, his nose throbbed painfully, which he thought odd in the circumstances.
Jamie Fraser is, alas, not dead—but he is in hell. Waking among the fallen on Culloden Field, he is concerned neither for his men nor his wounds but for his wife and their unborn child. Lord, he prayed passionately, that she may be safe. She and the child. It’s a prayer he’ll utter many times over the next twenty years, never knowing but always hoping that Claire made it through the standing stones, back to the safety of her own time.
Safe she is, but believing Jamie gone forever, she’s obliged to live without a heart, her only comfort their daughter, Brianna. But now, their daughter grown, she discovers that Jamie survived, and a fateful decision lies before her: Stay with her beloved daughter, or go back to search Scotland’s dangerous past for the man who was her heart and soul, sustained only by the hope that they will still know each other if she finds him.
- 本の長さ912ページ
- 言語英語
- 出版社Dell
- 発売日2001/8/7
- 寸法15.57 x 4.14 x 23.55 cm
- ISBN-100385335997
- ISBN-13978-0385335997
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“Triumphant ... Her use of historical detail and a truly adult love story confirm Gabaldon as a superior writer.”—Publishers Weekly
“An amazing read.”—Arizona Tribune
“An amazing read.”—Arizona Tribune
抜粋
INVERNESS
MAY 2 , 1968
Of course he’s dead!’’ Claire’s voice was sharp with agitation; it rang loudly in the half-empty study, echoing among the rifled bookshelves. She stood against the cork-lined wall like a prisoner awaiting a firing squad, staring from her daughter to Roger Wakefield and back again.
‘‘I don’t think so.’’ Roger felt terribly tired. He rubbed a hand over his face, then picked up the folder from the desk; the one containing all the research he’d done since Claire and her daughter had first come to him, three weeks before, and asked his help. He opened the folder and thumbed slowly through the contents. The Jacobites of Culloden. The Rising of the ’45. The gallant Scots who had rallied to the banner of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and cut through Scotland like a blazing sword—only to come to ruin and defeat against the Duke of Cumberland on the gray moor at Culloden. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, plucking out several sheets clipped together. The archaic writing looked odd, rendered in the black crispness of a photocopy. ‘‘This is the muster roll of the Master of Lovat’s regiment.’’
He thrust the thin sheaf of papers at Claire, but it was her daughter, Brianna, who took the sheets from him and began to turn the pages, a slight frown between her reddish brows.
‘‘Read the top sheet,’’ Roger said. ‘‘Where it says ‘Officers.’ ’’
‘‘All right. ‘Officers,’ ’’ she read aloud, ‘‘ ‘Simon, Master of Lovat’ . . .’’
‘‘The Young Fox,’’ Roger interrupted. ‘‘Lovat’s son. And five more names, right?’’
Brianna cocked one brow at him, but went on reading.
‘‘ ‘William Chisholm Fraser, Lieutenant; George D’Amerd Fraser Shaw, Captain; Duncan Joseph Fraser, Lieutenant; Bayard Murray Fraser, Major,’’ she paused, swallowing, before reading the last name, ‘‘ ‘. . . James Alexander
Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Captain.’ ’’ She lowered the papers, looking a little pale. ‘‘My father.’’
Claire moved quickly to her daughter’s side, squeezing the girl’s arm. She was pale, too.
‘‘Yes,’’ she said to Roger. ‘‘I know he went to Culloden. When he left me . . . there at the stone circle . . . he meant to go back to Culloden Field, to rescue his men who were with Charles Stuart. And we know he did’’—she nodded at the folder on the desk, its manila surface blank and innocent in the lamplight—‘‘you found their names. But . . . but . . . Jamie . . .’’
Speaking the name aloud seemed to rattle her, and she clamped her lips tight.
Now it was Brianna’s turn to support her mother.
‘‘He meant to go back, you said.’’ Her eyes, dark blue and encouraging, were intent on her mother’s face. ‘‘He meant to take his men away from the field, and then go back to the battle.’’ Claire nodded, recovering herself slightly.
‘‘He knew he hadn’t much chance of getting away; if the English caught him . . . he said he’d rather die in battle. That’s what he meant to do.’’ She turned to Roger, her gaze an unsettling amber. Her eyes always reminded him of hawk’s eyes, as though she could see a good deal farther than most people. ‘‘I can’t believe he didn’t die there—so many men did, and he meant to!’’
Almost half the Highland army had died at Culloden, cut down in a blast of cannonfire and searing musketry. But not Jamie Fraser. ‘‘No,’’ Roger said doggedly. ‘‘That bit I read you from Linklater’s book—’’ He reached to pick it up, a white volume, entitled The Prince in the Heather.
‘‘Following the battle,’’ he read, ‘‘eighteen wounded Jacobite officers took refuge in the farmhouse near the moor. Here they lay in pain, their wounds untended, for two days. At the end of that time, they were taken out and shot. One man, a Fraser of the Master of Lovat’s regiment, escaped the slaughter. The rest are buried at the edge of the domestic park.
‘‘See?’’ he said, laying the book down and looking earnestly at the two women over its pages. ‘‘An officer, of the Master of Lovat’s regiment.’’ He grabbed up the sheets of the muster roll. ‘‘And here they are! Just six of them. Now, we know the man in the farmhouse can’t have been Young Simon; he’s a well-known historical figure, and we know very well what happened to him. He retreated from the field— unwounded, mind you—with a group of his men, and fought his way north, eventually making it back to Beaufort Castle, near here.’’ He waved vaguely at the full-length window, through which the nighttime lights of Inverness twinkled faintly.
‘‘Nor was the man who escaped Leanach farmhouse any of the other four officers—William, George, Duncan, or Bayard,’’ Roger said. ‘‘Why?’’ He snatched another paper out of the folder and brandished it, almost triumphantly. ‘‘Because they all did die at Culloden! All four of them were killed on the field—I found their names listed on a plaque in the church at Beauly.’’
Claire let out a long breath, then eased herself down into the old leather swivel chair behind the desk.
‘‘Jesus H. Christ,’’ she said. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and her head against her hands, the thick, curly brown hair spilling forward to hide her face. Brianna laid a hand on Claire’s back, face troubled as she bent over her mother. She was a tall girl, with large, fine bones, and her long red hair glowed in the warm light of the desk lamp.
‘‘If he didn’t die . . .’’ she began tentatively.
Claire’s head snapped up. ‘‘But he is dead!’’ she said. Her face was strained, and small lines were visible around her eyes. ‘‘For God’s sake, it’s two hundred years; whether he died at Culloden or not, he’s dead now!’’
Brianna stepped back from her mother’s vehemence, and lowered her head, so the red hair—her father’s red hair—swung down beside her cheek.
‘‘I guess so,’’ she whispered. Roger could see she was fighting back tears. And no wonder, he thought. To find out in short order that first, the man you had loved and called ‘‘Father’’ all your life really wasn’t your father, secondly, that your real father was a Highland Scot who had lived two hundred years ago, and thirdly, to realize that he had likely perished in some horrid fashion, unthinkably far from the wife and child he had sacrificed himself to save . . . enough to rattle one, Roger thought.
He crossed to Brianna and touched her arm. She gave him a brief, distracted glance, and tried to smile. He put his arms around her, even in his pity for her distress thinking how marvelous she felt, all warm and soft and springy at once.
Claire still sat at the desk, motionless. The yellow hawk’s eyes had gone a softer color now, remote with memory. They rested sightlessly on the east wall of the study, still covered from floor to ceiling with the notes and memorabilia left by the Reverend Wakefield, Roger’s late adoptive father. Looking at the wall himself, Roger saw the annual meeting notice sent by the Society of the White Rose—those enthusiastic, eccentric souls who still championed the cause of Scottish independence, meeting in nostalgic tribute to Charles Stuart, and the Highland heroes who had followed him.
Roger cleared his throat slightly.
‘‘Er . . . if Jamie Fraser didn’t die at Culloden . . .’’ he said.
‘‘Then he likely died soon afterward.’’ Claire’s eyes met Roger’s, straight on, the cool look back in the yellow-brown depths. ‘‘You have no idea how it was,’’ she said. ‘‘There was a famine in the Highlands—none of the men had eaten for days before the battle. He was wounded—we know that. Even if he escaped, there would have been . . . no one to care for him.’’ Her voice caught slightly at that; she was a doctor now, had been a healer even then, twenty years before, when she had stepped through a circle of standing stones, and met destiny with James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Roger was conscious of them both; the tall, shaking girl he held in his arms, and the woman at the desk, so still, so poised. She had traveled through the stones, through time; been suspected as a spy, arrested as a witch, snatched by an unimaginable quirk of circumstance from the arms of her first husband, Frank Randall. And three years later, her second husband, James Fraser, had sent her back through the stones, pregnant, in a desperate effort to save her and the unborn child from the onrushing disaster that would soon engulf him.
Surely, he thought to himself, she’s been through enough? But Roger was a historian. He had a scholar’s insatiable, amoral curiosity, too powerful to be constrained by simple compassion. More than that, he was oddly conscious of the third figure in the family tragedy in which he found himself involved—Jamie Fraser.
‘If he didn’t die at Culloden,’’ he began again, more firmly, ‘‘then perhaps I can find out what did happen to him. Do you want me to try?’’ He waited, breathless, feeling Brianna’s warm breath through his shirt. Jamie Fraser had had a life, and a death. Roger felt obscurely that it was his duty to find out all the truth; that Jamie Fraser’s women deserved to know all they could of him. For Brianna, such knowledge was all she would ever have of the father she had never known. And for Claire—behind the question he had asked was the thought that had plainly not yet struck her, stunned with shock as she was: she had crossed the barrier of time twice before. She could, just possibly, do it again. And if Jamie Fraser had not died at Culloden . . .
He saw awareness flicker in the clouded amber of her eyes, as the thought came to her. She was normally pale; now her face blanched white as the ivory handle of the letter opener before her on the desk. Her fingers closed around it, clenching so the knuckles stood out in knobs of bone. She didn’t speak for a long time. Her gaze fixed on Brianna and lingered there for a moment, then returned to Roger’s face. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said, in a whisper so soft he could barely hear her. ‘‘Yes. Find out for me. Please. Find out.’’
MAY 2 , 1968
Of course he’s dead!’’ Claire’s voice was sharp with agitation; it rang loudly in the half-empty study, echoing among the rifled bookshelves. She stood against the cork-lined wall like a prisoner awaiting a firing squad, staring from her daughter to Roger Wakefield and back again.
‘‘I don’t think so.’’ Roger felt terribly tired. He rubbed a hand over his face, then picked up the folder from the desk; the one containing all the research he’d done since Claire and her daughter had first come to him, three weeks before, and asked his help. He opened the folder and thumbed slowly through the contents. The Jacobites of Culloden. The Rising of the ’45. The gallant Scots who had rallied to the banner of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and cut through Scotland like a blazing sword—only to come to ruin and defeat against the Duke of Cumberland on the gray moor at Culloden. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, plucking out several sheets clipped together. The archaic writing looked odd, rendered in the black crispness of a photocopy. ‘‘This is the muster roll of the Master of Lovat’s regiment.’’
He thrust the thin sheaf of papers at Claire, but it was her daughter, Brianna, who took the sheets from him and began to turn the pages, a slight frown between her reddish brows.
‘‘Read the top sheet,’’ Roger said. ‘‘Where it says ‘Officers.’ ’’
‘‘All right. ‘Officers,’ ’’ she read aloud, ‘‘ ‘Simon, Master of Lovat’ . . .’’
‘‘The Young Fox,’’ Roger interrupted. ‘‘Lovat’s son. And five more names, right?’’
Brianna cocked one brow at him, but went on reading.
‘‘ ‘William Chisholm Fraser, Lieutenant; George D’Amerd Fraser Shaw, Captain; Duncan Joseph Fraser, Lieutenant; Bayard Murray Fraser, Major,’’ she paused, swallowing, before reading the last name, ‘‘ ‘. . . James Alexander
Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Captain.’ ’’ She lowered the papers, looking a little pale. ‘‘My father.’’
Claire moved quickly to her daughter’s side, squeezing the girl’s arm. She was pale, too.
‘‘Yes,’’ she said to Roger. ‘‘I know he went to Culloden. When he left me . . . there at the stone circle . . . he meant to go back to Culloden Field, to rescue his men who were with Charles Stuart. And we know he did’’—she nodded at the folder on the desk, its manila surface blank and innocent in the lamplight—‘‘you found their names. But . . . but . . . Jamie . . .’’
Speaking the name aloud seemed to rattle her, and she clamped her lips tight.
Now it was Brianna’s turn to support her mother.
‘‘He meant to go back, you said.’’ Her eyes, dark blue and encouraging, were intent on her mother’s face. ‘‘He meant to take his men away from the field, and then go back to the battle.’’ Claire nodded, recovering herself slightly.
‘‘He knew he hadn’t much chance of getting away; if the English caught him . . . he said he’d rather die in battle. That’s what he meant to do.’’ She turned to Roger, her gaze an unsettling amber. Her eyes always reminded him of hawk’s eyes, as though she could see a good deal farther than most people. ‘‘I can’t believe he didn’t die there—so many men did, and he meant to!’’
Almost half the Highland army had died at Culloden, cut down in a blast of cannonfire and searing musketry. But not Jamie Fraser. ‘‘No,’’ Roger said doggedly. ‘‘That bit I read you from Linklater’s book—’’ He reached to pick it up, a white volume, entitled The Prince in the Heather.
‘‘Following the battle,’’ he read, ‘‘eighteen wounded Jacobite officers took refuge in the farmhouse near the moor. Here they lay in pain, their wounds untended, for two days. At the end of that time, they were taken out and shot. One man, a Fraser of the Master of Lovat’s regiment, escaped the slaughter. The rest are buried at the edge of the domestic park.
‘‘See?’’ he said, laying the book down and looking earnestly at the two women over its pages. ‘‘An officer, of the Master of Lovat’s regiment.’’ He grabbed up the sheets of the muster roll. ‘‘And here they are! Just six of them. Now, we know the man in the farmhouse can’t have been Young Simon; he’s a well-known historical figure, and we know very well what happened to him. He retreated from the field— unwounded, mind you—with a group of his men, and fought his way north, eventually making it back to Beaufort Castle, near here.’’ He waved vaguely at the full-length window, through which the nighttime lights of Inverness twinkled faintly.
‘‘Nor was the man who escaped Leanach farmhouse any of the other four officers—William, George, Duncan, or Bayard,’’ Roger said. ‘‘Why?’’ He snatched another paper out of the folder and brandished it, almost triumphantly. ‘‘Because they all did die at Culloden! All four of them were killed on the field—I found their names listed on a plaque in the church at Beauly.’’
Claire let out a long breath, then eased herself down into the old leather swivel chair behind the desk.
‘‘Jesus H. Christ,’’ she said. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and her head against her hands, the thick, curly brown hair spilling forward to hide her face. Brianna laid a hand on Claire’s back, face troubled as she bent over her mother. She was a tall girl, with large, fine bones, and her long red hair glowed in the warm light of the desk lamp.
‘‘If he didn’t die . . .’’ she began tentatively.
Claire’s head snapped up. ‘‘But he is dead!’’ she said. Her face was strained, and small lines were visible around her eyes. ‘‘For God’s sake, it’s two hundred years; whether he died at Culloden or not, he’s dead now!’’
Brianna stepped back from her mother’s vehemence, and lowered her head, so the red hair—her father’s red hair—swung down beside her cheek.
‘‘I guess so,’’ she whispered. Roger could see she was fighting back tears. And no wonder, he thought. To find out in short order that first, the man you had loved and called ‘‘Father’’ all your life really wasn’t your father, secondly, that your real father was a Highland Scot who had lived two hundred years ago, and thirdly, to realize that he had likely perished in some horrid fashion, unthinkably far from the wife and child he had sacrificed himself to save . . . enough to rattle one, Roger thought.
He crossed to Brianna and touched her arm. She gave him a brief, distracted glance, and tried to smile. He put his arms around her, even in his pity for her distress thinking how marvelous she felt, all warm and soft and springy at once.
Claire still sat at the desk, motionless. The yellow hawk’s eyes had gone a softer color now, remote with memory. They rested sightlessly on the east wall of the study, still covered from floor to ceiling with the notes and memorabilia left by the Reverend Wakefield, Roger’s late adoptive father. Looking at the wall himself, Roger saw the annual meeting notice sent by the Society of the White Rose—those enthusiastic, eccentric souls who still championed the cause of Scottish independence, meeting in nostalgic tribute to Charles Stuart, and the Highland heroes who had followed him.
Roger cleared his throat slightly.
‘‘Er . . . if Jamie Fraser didn’t die at Culloden . . .’’ he said.
‘‘Then he likely died soon afterward.’’ Claire’s eyes met Roger’s, straight on, the cool look back in the yellow-brown depths. ‘‘You have no idea how it was,’’ she said. ‘‘There was a famine in the Highlands—none of the men had eaten for days before the battle. He was wounded—we know that. Even if he escaped, there would have been . . . no one to care for him.’’ Her voice caught slightly at that; she was a doctor now, had been a healer even then, twenty years before, when she had stepped through a circle of standing stones, and met destiny with James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Roger was conscious of them both; the tall, shaking girl he held in his arms, and the woman at the desk, so still, so poised. She had traveled through the stones, through time; been suspected as a spy, arrested as a witch, snatched by an unimaginable quirk of circumstance from the arms of her first husband, Frank Randall. And three years later, her second husband, James Fraser, had sent her back through the stones, pregnant, in a desperate effort to save her and the unborn child from the onrushing disaster that would soon engulf him.
Surely, he thought to himself, she’s been through enough? But Roger was a historian. He had a scholar’s insatiable, amoral curiosity, too powerful to be constrained by simple compassion. More than that, he was oddly conscious of the third figure in the family tragedy in which he found himself involved—Jamie Fraser.
‘If he didn’t die at Culloden,’’ he began again, more firmly, ‘‘then perhaps I can find out what did happen to him. Do you want me to try?’’ He waited, breathless, feeling Brianna’s warm breath through his shirt. Jamie Fraser had had a life, and a death. Roger felt obscurely that it was his duty to find out all the truth; that Jamie Fraser’s women deserved to know all they could of him. For Brianna, such knowledge was all she would ever have of the father she had never known. And for Claire—behind the question he had asked was the thought that had plainly not yet struck her, stunned with shock as she was: she had crossed the barrier of time twice before. She could, just possibly, do it again. And if Jamie Fraser had not died at Culloden . . .
He saw awareness flicker in the clouded amber of her eyes, as the thought came to her. She was normally pale; now her face blanched white as the ivory handle of the letter opener before her on the desk. Her fingers closed around it, clenching so the knuckles stood out in knobs of bone. She didn’t speak for a long time. Her gaze fixed on Brianna and lingered there for a moment, then returned to Roger’s face. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said, in a whisper so soft he could barely hear her. ‘‘Yes. Find out for me. Please. Find out.’’
著者について
Diana Gabaldon is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the wildly popular Outlander novels—Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber, Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross, A Breath of Snow and Ashes (for which she won a Quill Award and the Corine International Book Prize), An Echo in the Bone, Written in My Own Heart’s Blood, and Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone—as well as the related Lord John Grey books, Lord John and the Private Matter, Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade, Lord John and the Hand of Devils, and The Scottish Prisoner; a collection of novellas, Seven Stones to Stand or Fall; three works of nonfiction, “I Give You My Body . . .” and The Outlandish Companion, Volumes 1 and 2; the Outlander graphic novel The Exile; and The Official Outlander Coloring Book. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, with her husband.
登録情報
- 出版社 : Dell (2001/8/7)
- 発売日 : 2001/8/7
- 言語 : 英語
- ペーパーバック : 912ページ
- ISBN-10 : 0385335997
- ISBN-13 : 978-0385335997
- 寸法 : 15.57 x 4.14 x 23.55 cm
- カスタマーレビュー:
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2018年2月17日に日本でレビュー済み
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日本語版はすべて読んでいますが、一番わくわくするこの巻は更に原語版も読みました。日本語と違いジェイミーの英語がだいぶなまっているので、そのあたり雰囲気が変って、新鮮かな。
2017年2月1日に日本でレビュー済み
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クレアとジェイミーが離れ離れ状態に耐えられず、シーズン3開始を待たずして、このVoyagerを読むことに。
クレアが想像以上に早くジェイミーを見つけたのには安堵。ただ、離れ離れの約20年、何と色々あったことか。途中話が凝りすぎて、中国人と、奴隷の話は飛ばし読みをした。思いがけない人物の登場にびっくりする事も。波乱万丈とは、全くこの2人の人生にちがいない。
クレアが想像以上に早くジェイミーを見つけたのには安堵。ただ、離れ離れの約20年、何と色々あったことか。途中話が凝りすぎて、中国人と、奴隷の話は飛ばし読みをした。思いがけない人物の登場にびっくりする事も。波乱万丈とは、全くこの2人の人生にちがいない。
2017年2月5日に日本でレビュー済み
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CD版で聴きました。作者自身による縮約版で、同時にところどころは原書を読みながら、一足先に最後まで聴きました。単語の発音やスコットランド訛りの英語がわかってきて勉強になりました。 今度は原書の方を丁寧に読んでいます。抜けている場面を含めて、気持ちに余裕を持って読めます。二人の再会場面は、聴いていても胸が熱くなりました。ちょうどドラマの撮影が先日エジンバラで行われていたようで、ますますS3が楽しみです。CDは旧版(縮約)と新版(完全)があるようなので、購入時は注意が必要です。
2014年12月14日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
またしてもドキドキの展開です。そして、またしても拉致られるクレア・・・。拉致られ体質ってあるのかな、と思うぐらい拉致られます。
クレアが過去に戻って20年ぐらいぶりにジェイミーと再開し、アメリカにたどり着く(流れ着くかも・・・)までのお話です。途中、長いこと会っていなかったジェイミーの過去が明らかになり、クレアが「ガーン((((;゚Д゚)))))))」と何回かなるのですが、読者はこの設定をあらかじめ知っていたにも関わらず、同じぐらい頭をぶん殴られたように感じることが出来ます。そのぐらいクレアの憤りというか、ショックが身にこたえます。
とにかくハラハラし通しで、キリがいいところまで止められないので、時間のある時に読み始めてください。寝不足で死にます。
クレアが過去に戻って20年ぐらいぶりにジェイミーと再開し、アメリカにたどり着く(流れ着くかも・・・)までのお話です。途中、長いこと会っていなかったジェイミーの過去が明らかになり、クレアが「ガーン((((;゚Д゚)))))))」と何回かなるのですが、読者はこの設定をあらかじめ知っていたにも関わらず、同じぐらい頭をぶん殴られたように感じることが出来ます。そのぐらいクレアの憤りというか、ショックが身にこたえます。
とにかくハラハラし通しで、キリがいいところまで止められないので、時間のある時に読み始めてください。寝不足で死にます。
2003年5月18日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
前2巻同様名シーン満載で最後まで一気に読ませます。
Claireを失って生きるJamieの切なさ、そしてついに再会
衝撃の事実?そして紆余曲折を経てまた一緒に歩き出すふたり・・・
20年の歳月の経過はちょっぴり切ないのですが、ラブラブ度は
変わらずです。愛情あふれる二人のやりとりには時には笑わされ、
時には泣かされます。個人的にはシリーズ中一番好きな巻。
必読です!
それにしても20年経っても相変わらず豪傑でJamieを心配させ
まくるClaire、最高可愛いです(笑)
Claireを失って生きるJamieの切なさ、そしてついに再会
衝撃の事実?そして紆余曲折を経てまた一緒に歩き出すふたり・・・
20年の歳月の経過はちょっぴり切ないのですが、ラブラブ度は
変わらずです。愛情あふれる二人のやりとりには時には笑わされ、
時には泣かされます。個人的にはシリーズ中一番好きな巻。
必読です!
それにしても20年経っても相変わらず豪傑でJamieを心配させ
まくるClaire、最高可愛いです(笑)
2017年4月26日に日本でレビュー済み
TVドラマのシーズン1&2を見て、今年9月のシーズン3が待ちきれず購入。
1000頁以上の長編。話が色んな方向に膨らみモタモタ感はあるもの、やはりクレアとジェイミーの深い愛と絆に身悶えせずにはいられません。
1000頁以上の長編。話が色んな方向に膨らみモタモタ感はあるもの、やはりクレアとジェイミーの深い愛と絆に身悶えせずにはいられません。
2004年10月28日に日本でレビュー済み
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ページをめくっては「えっ?」「ちょっと!」「なんで?」「よかった!」の連続です。そして素晴らしい感動に必ず出会えます。このシリーズに出会えた喜びと幸せを泣くほど感じました。ジェイミーの豊かな人間性、クレアの勇気と決断、そして感動の再会を果たし、あらためて愛を確かめ合う二人…ああ!たまらない!やっぱりこのシリーズが大好きだ!ガバルドンさんにありがとうと両手を合わせたくなる事請合い。
ところで私は初めての原書だったのですが、辞書を片手にけっこうちゃんと読めました。ためらっている方はぜひ挑戦してみてください。ジェイミーには英語の台詞のほうがよく似合う。やっぱ外人だし。
ところで私は初めての原書だったのですが、辞書を片手にけっこうちゃんと読めました。ためらっている方はぜひ挑戦してみてください。ジェイミーには英語の台詞のほうがよく似合う。やっぱ外人だし。
2004年4月26日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
第3巻Voyagerでは、カロゥードンの戦い以後のジェイミーの生活が明らかになり、クレアはある決意を固める・・・!
これ以上言ってしまうとネタばらしになるので言えないのが非常につらい!しかし、予想もできないすごい展開の連続に驚かされっぱなしで、一息ついたかと思うとさらにとんでもない困難が波のように襲ってきて先を読まずにはいられない。第1巻を読んだだけではわからなかったスケールの大きさにも驚かされる。これまでフィクションでロマンスありの歴史大河といえば「アンジェリク(S&Aゴロン作・タイムトラベルはありません)が一番だと思っていたが、それすら超えているかもしれない。
第2巻まで読んだ人なら何も言われなくても読むに決まってると思いますが、内容的にショックを受けることはあるかもしれないけど、おもしろさ(そして2巻の別れのシーンに続き、せつなさ)は落ちてません。手に汗にぎり、ハンカチ用意で読んでください。
これ以上言ってしまうとネタばらしになるので言えないのが非常につらい!しかし、予想もできないすごい展開の連続に驚かされっぱなしで、一息ついたかと思うとさらにとんでもない困難が波のように襲ってきて先を読まずにはいられない。第1巻を読んだだけではわからなかったスケールの大きさにも驚かされる。これまでフィクションでロマンスありの歴史大河といえば「アンジェリク(S&Aゴロン作・タイムトラベルはありません)が一番だと思っていたが、それすら超えているかもしれない。
第2巻まで読んだ人なら何も言われなくても読むに決まってると思いますが、内容的にショックを受けることはあるかもしれないけど、おもしろさ(そして2巻の別れのシーンに続き、せつなさ)は落ちてません。手に汗にぎり、ハンカチ用意で読んでください。
他の国からのトップレビュー
Ginette Moreau
5つ星のうち5.0
Must read in order
2024年3月1日にカナダでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Fantastic books, can't put them down, wish there where more, the TV series is true to these books
Margaux
5つ星のうち5.0
I recommend !
2021年1月11日にフランスでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
メディアを読み込めませんでした。
Margaux
2021年1月11日にフランスでレビュー済み
このレビューの画像
Julianne
5つ星のうち5.0
Awesome!
2018年4月27日にブラジルでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
I loved every bit of it! All the suffering of the time apart was heartbreaking, but it was so worth of reading! Can't wait to start reading the next!
Terrymabelle
5つ星のうち5.0
Maravillosa
2018年3月27日にメキシコでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Siendo fan de esta saga de novelas debo decir que Claire y Jamie viven un duelo profundo que se puede sentir en las lineas de la historia. Diana Gabaldon tiene esa sensibilidad de narrativa que te hace sentir involucrada en cada escena. Me encanta y no hay parte que no lea y me emocione.
Firespitter
5つ星のうち5.0
¡Con ganas de leerlo!
2019年1月5日にスペインでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
De momento valoraré sólo el producto físico ya que aún no he leído el libro; modificaré mi comentario cuando lo haga. El libro llegó bien protegido y en perfecto estado; también debo añadir que se envió dentro del plazo de entrga previsto. Es el tercer libro de la saga Outlander. Es en inglés, edición de tapa dura y el tamaño de la letra es suficiente para leerlo sin cansarse la vista. ¡Con muchas ganas de sumergirme en él!